


You Take My Breath Away

by Goober



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Jealousy, Light Angst, M/M, Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-28 07:32:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19389430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goober/pseuds/Goober
Summary: This is so unlike him, Aziraphale thinks, nails digging into his trousers as Crowley’s eyes bore into him from behind his sunglasses. Aziraphale’s collar feels tight as he tries not to squirm under the demon’s scrutiny.“You’re not jealous, are you, angel?”





	You Take My Breath Away

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ragtags](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ragtags/gifts).



The Bentley speeds along, doing well over the limit as Crowley whips a hard right at no less than 60 miles an hour. Aziraphale, now unfortunately used to the ungodly speeds, listens idly as the poor tape he brought along slowly succumbs to the quirk of Crowley’s car. 

As Queen begins to filter in he starts to get lost in his thoughts, deciding what he would do with the rest of his day once Crowley dropped him off back at his shop.

“You know, I had a fling with Freddie Mercury once,” Crowley says, apropos of nothing.

If he had breath he would have choked on it, all the same Aziraphale startles a bit and turns to the window, unable to look at his friend. He knows his face is an open book, knows Crowley is probably trying to get a rise out of him and would relish in the emotions rapidly firing on his face as he processes what Crowley just said.

“You did, did you?” Aziraphale asks, somehow managing to keep his tone even.

“Well, more than once. We had a good time back in the 70’s.” Crowley’s voice is casual and somehow that makes it worse. Aziraphale expected him to have some kind of teasing tone, but he states the facts evenly, careless of the growing heat in Aziraphale’s chest. “He wrote a few songs about me, only one ever got published in an album.”

“Is that why your car only plays Queen?” Aziraphale asks with a snort of disbelief. “Because you’re in one of their songs?”

“No. They’re just a good band, and the car likes them.” Crowley answers, shrugging his shoulders a bit. “Can’t deny she has good taste.” From the corner of his eye he sees Crowley watching him.

“Eyes on the road, my dear,” Aziraphale says, ignoring how terse his voice sounds.

This is so unlike him, Aziraphale thinks, nails digging into his trousers as Crowley’s eyes bore into him from behind his sunglasses. Aziraphale’s collar feels tight as he tries not to squirm under the demon’s scrutiny.

“You’re not jealous, are you, angel?”

There’s that teasing tone, the little silent chuckle. Crowley found his in and now he’s going to latch onto it, just as he always does. “Jealous?” Aziraphale huffs, “Why would I be jealous? You can have a … dalliance with anyone you please.” He sits up straighter, “Afterall, that is your nature, as a demon.”

“Ouch, angel, that’s a bit rough.” Crowley turns his eyes back to the road, and Aziraphale relaxes just a bit without that intense gaze on him. “You’re telling me you’ve never had a  _ dalliance _ with anyone? Not in thousands of years of humanity?”

“I most certainly have not,” Aziraphale says indignantly.

It’s not like he hasn’t thought of possibly trying it, but there was never the right time, the right place — the right  _ person _ . Aziraphale knew Crowley has had numerous affairs with humans over the centuries, has always acted like it was nothing.

“Oh come on, you were all over that Oscar Wilde back in the day. Don’t you own a few signed first editions of his works as well?” Crowley pries, turning another corner sharp enough to shake them both. “Don’t tell me you never had a thing with him.”

“What I did or did not do is none of your business.” Aziraphale feels his whole face heat up, chest tight as he adds, “But if I must set the record straight, no. The most we had ever done was … kiss.”

Crowley chuckles, “You’re too good, angel.”

“Yes, well, we can’t all have affairs with famous singers.” Aziraphale snaps, blinking as he recovers from losing his cool. “Some of us were influencing the world in other ways.”

“Oh but I did influence something,” Crowley says, voice a little softer. “I inspired him to write a song about someone I know.”

Something aches in his chest where a heart would be, a soft pang of something aches through him. Whoever Crowley had a song written for must be very special to him, though he hasn’t known the demon to get close to anyone. 

Aziraphale doesn’t respond right away, watches as the rain slowly begins to fall from the overcast grey clouds, “I don’t see what the point of all this is.”

Why Crowley decided dragging his personal life out in front of Aziraphale would be a good thing, he doesn’t know. What he does know, is that he needs out of this car right  _ now _ .

Blessedly the car rolls to a stop on a familiar street, and Aziraphale says nothing as he unbuckles his seatbelt and throws open the door, shutting it firmly behind him. He storms down the street, ignoring the demon calling after him as he rushes through the downpour.

It’s only a block to his shop, and he throws the doors open. As he steps into the middle of the room he waves his hand and the doors lock behind him, blinds closing as the ‘Closed’ sign smacks harshly against the pane.

He’s not sure what is bothering him more — the fact that Crowley could be so dense that he’d think picking on Aziraphale’s lack of experience would be funny or lighthearted in some way, or that he was completely blind to the angel’s distress.

It’s not his fault that the person he’s been pining for, the person he’s wanted  _ everything _ from was either asleep for a whole century or otherwise occupied with himself.

He waves his hand half heartedly to miracle away the water, not wanting to ruin his carpeting despite his emotional exhaustion. Aziraphale steps deeper into the store, runs a hand fondly over his book on the stand beside his reading chair.

It’s a first edition, because of course it is, but the signed scrawl of Wilde’s pen makes his stomach flop.

Aziraphale hears the bolt of his door fly open and in sprints an out of breath, completely drenched Crowley. His hair is a mess, water dripping down his face and his clothes, as Aziraphale stares. Crowley shuts the door behind him and bolts it, leaning against the wood as he tries to catch a breath he doesn’t usually need.

Did he really run a whole block just to get to Aziraphale? 

Crowley never runs.

“I’m not in the mood to talk,” Aziraphale says, turning his back on the demon as he goes to inspect his books. “We should reconvene tomorrow.”

Crowley is silent for a moment, so silent Aziraphale thinks he may have actually left. When suddenly the demon clears his throat snaps his fingers. Aziraphale turns to him, folding his arms over his chest, unaware of the record player kicking into life as he sighs, “Crowley, please.”

“If you’ll just listen, angel,” Crowley says, hands shoved into his pockets. It’s a nervous tick he’s developed over the years — and he should be nervous, Aziraphale is definitely not in the mood for his antics.

“No, I won’t. I’m tired of this conversation.” Aziraphale frowns, “If you’ll excuse me I have—”

“Aziraphale would you just ssshut up and  _ listen _ ?” Crowley’s voice is tense but he’s not shouting, has never raised his voice at Aziraphale in the long time they’ve known one another.

Now that he thinks about it, he can count on one hand the amount of times Crowley has used his actual name, and not simply  _ angel _ .

Aziraphale is about to talk back when the familiar voice of Freddie Mercury cuts through the now silent room, and that pained pang is back in his chest before he pushes it down. Crowley looks to the ground as the lyrics to a song Aziraphale surprisingly hasn’t heard before swim around them.

_ So please don't go, _

_ Don't leave me here all by myself, _

_ I get ever so lonely from time to time. _

_ I will find you, _

_ Anywhere you go, I'll be right behind you _

_ Right until the ends of the earth. _

_ I'll get no sleep till I find you to tell you, _

_ That you just take my breath _

_ Away. _

He stands there, a dozen different feelings flowing through him but mostly confusion, and injury at the edges. Aziraphale isn’t sure what to say, what to do. He stands and watches his friend’s cheeks burn as he pointedly doesn’t look at Aziraphale as the final lyrics are sung between them.

_ I will find you, _

_ Right until the ends of the earth, _

_ I’ll get no sleep ‘til I find you. _

_ To tell you when I’ve found you, _

_ I love you. _

The record stops spinning with a soft click, the needle removing itself from the vinyl. It’s a silent noise, but it may as well have been cannonfire between them, as Aziraphale finds himself holding a breath he doesn’t need.

An aching pang is back but it’s different than last time. It doesn’t stab him, doesn’t split through his chest and set his nerves on fire. This one, this one is lighter. Hopeful, pulling him towards the demon standing before him, still dripping on his carpet.

“Who is it for?” He brings himself to ask, not sure if he’s prepared for the answer.

Crowley recoils a bit, looks up from the floor long enough to ask, “Really, angel? Who is it for?”

Aziraphale doesn’t respond, not at first. He makes his way slowly across the room, a new kind of heat burning in his chest as he closes in on the demon. Crowley’s instinct is to step back, to keep stepping back until his back is against a wall and he has nowhere else to go.

“Who is it for?” He repeats, softer, reaching out to gently pull the sunglasses from Crowley’s face.

Without the glasses to hide behind Crowley has literally nowhere to go. Aziraphale can see the heat blooming high on his cheeks, the way it spreads to his ears. His eyes flick down to avoid Aziraphale, before he scrunches them closed, and meets the angel’s gaze head on.

“Who do you think?” Crowley’s voice breaks a bit, something completely raw in his whisper.

“I want to hear you say it,” Aziraphale decides, ready to put the final nail in the coffin one way or another.

“It’s for you, Aziraphale. It’s always been for yo—”

Crowley’s confession is cut off, a small noise escaping from the back of his throat as Aziraphale presses his lips to Crowley’s. The kiss is tender, until it isn’t. The surprise wears off and Crowley kisses back in full, bringing his hands up to grab onto the lapels of Aziraphale’s jacket to drag him closer.

Without warning Crowley turns them around, pinning Aziraphale against the wall in a whirlwind that makes his head spin more than the kiss. He’s about to protest when Crowley’s tongue breaks past his teeth and runs across the angel’s, distracting him from his words.

“I mean it,” Crowley pants between kisses, “every word he wrote. They’re mine for you, just for you.”

Something warm breaks in Aziraphale’s chest, 6,000 years worth of pining rushing through his system like ice and fire all at once. He didn’t know it from the beginning, but he figured it out. Slowly, but surely, until it led to this point, with Crowley trailing wet kisses down his throat.

“I won’t leave you alone,” Aziraphale promises, “you’ve always had me. You will  _ always _ have me.”

Crowley stops his fevered kisses to lean into Aziraphale, forehead against the angel’s shoulder. “Don’t— Don’t say that, not unless you mean it, too.”

Aziraphale cups Crowley’s cheek, lifting his head up so their eyes meet. He smiles, watches Crowley watch him intensely, hanging on every moment of silence before Aziraphale speaks. “I do mean it, Crowley. I love you too, and I’m not going anywhere.”

He’s lucky to get his words out before Crowley is on him again, kissing and holding onto Aziraphale like he was the last beacon of light in an otherwise endless void. His hand grips Aziraphale’s hair, not hard enough to hurt, but enough of a presence that Aziraphale gasps into their kiss.

Crowley pulls away slowly, and for once, he’s not avoiding Aziraphale’s eyes. “I think,” he says, a little breathless, lips pink and starting to swell, “we have a lot to discuss.”

“We do, my dear.” Aziraphale gently nudges Crowley back, waving his hand over the demon’s figure to dry the rain from him. Aziraphale reaches out for his hand and laces their fingers together. 

“I’ll make us some cocoa,” Aziraphale offers as he leads his counterpart deeper into the shop.

Crowley laughs softly, “I’d like that.”


End file.
